The Last Days of Lord Gwyn: Chapter 1
by TorchHollow
Summary: In the beginning, there was the Age of Ancients, of grey crags and grey, endless dragons. But then came fire, and with it the four Lords. Three of them banded together with a scaleless traitor and overthrew the dragons, forging the Age of Fire. But nothing lasts forever. This story is a dramatic retelling of the past events in Dark Souls as I see them, from the POV of King Gwyn.
The Last Days of Lord Gwyn
A dramatic retelling of the events of ages past in the game _Dark Souls,_ by From Software.

[Author's note: nothing in this is necessarily true. Some of it is my interpretation of known facts, most is made up entirely. Truth, like everything else in this wonderful, wonderful game, is never certain and definite, but layered and complex. This is just one way this might have happened.]

 _It is._

 _And this is incredible, for it never was until now._

 _And that too is incredible, for "now" did not exist until this moment. Time was nothing, change nonexistent. All was as it simply was._

 _But now this. Far, far below the grey dark earth and the stone-clad beasts which call it theirs, the world itself gives birth. Light pours into the darkness, a burning light, a branding light. Where does it come from? What caused it to be? Questions such as this are meaningless, for the birth of the flame was the birth of cause, and before it nothing happened at all._

 _The inferno rises, roils, churns, blazing and blazing and casting dark shadows across the walls of its new world. Disparity. Heat sears the ashy air, and so cold comes to the world. Life will come, and with it death. Light is here, and with it the shadowy dark. Time passes, as it never has before, and after some length of it… from the dark they come._

 _Shambling, blinded by this new thing called light, these shells of living things are drawn to the flame. Their flesh is pallid and sunken, and within that flesh there is nothing at all. They are empty. Where they came from is as meaningless as the birth of the flame: they were, for everything always was. Until this moment._

 _They come, and find the souls of Lords within the flames. One burning hot with energy, with Life so blazing it carried in its new host a conduit to the fires of the first flame itself. One dull and pallid, colder than anything has ever been or will be, an decayed, rotten thing which existed within the end and Death of all things. One, snatched up and kept furtively after the others had been taken, black and as abyssal as the space between stars, so hungry and so, so Dark._

 _And one which crackles and coils within its owner, and which like the fire, brings Light to this grey endless world and forges a new age for it._

 _The fire burns within them. For the first time, the world_ is.

 _But it will not always be._

Chapter One

The Council of Lords

Originally, he had thought to receive them in his royal court, in the glorious majesty of Anor Londo. But they were not simply his vassals, to be summoned to his whim. And so the first grand council since after the War ended was held on a middle ground, spaced roughly equally between the three kingdoms. A shrine had been built there by the human folk of the surrounding towns, this one dedicated to his wife. A statue stood at the altar of the stone-roofed temple, holding the swaddled form of her firstborn son with a tender, loving embrace. She appeared the very picture of compassion and mercy, but the statue paled in comparison to the real thing, a fair vision swathed in white and gold now walking the streets of the Burg down to the shrine. The humans of this lower land cheered her adoringly as she passed, attended to by none other than the shining form of Dragonslayer Ornstein, Captain of the Four Knights. Both towered over the crowds of humans who filled the bridges and avenues through which they walked, as did the various other attendants of the royal procession. Heavily-armoured Sentinels hefted shields which a dozen humans would have struggled to lift, and a platoon of Silver Knights, argent and implacable, marched in regimented step behind them.

The effect was incredibly potent, and had exactly the desired effect: for when the final member of the procession walked past the humans' cheering died away and instead they bowed. He had dressed in his full royal outfit, robed in azure and gleaming gold, with the tall, slender-pointed crown of his kingdom upon his brow. Beneath it his white hair spilled across his shoulders, wild and unkempt and all the more regal for it. His face, or what was not hidden by his mane of a beard, was chiselled and fierce, and his eyes shone with the liquid gold of sunlight. He carried his greatsword strapped across his back, glinting in the light of his namesake with every step he took.

Gwyn, Lord of Sunlight. Bearer of the Light Soul. King of Anor Londo.

The head priestess prostrated herself before her living goddess' husband as he entered the quiet of the temple and shut out the crowds outside, so tiny and fragile. "Your majesty honours us beyond words," she spoke, barely daring to meet his eyes. "Whatever the purpose of your meeting, we shall serve it without question."

Gwyn gave a simple nod as she stood back up. "You do your shrine honour, priestess," he said, his voice deeper and richer than any humans. "But I shall warn you. Today I seek to use your fair temple to receive some very old friends. Their appearances may be… unnerving."

The younger priestesses observing them gasped, whispering among themselves, and the human at Gwyn's feet drew back, at once more than a little apprehensive. "Your… your majesty? You speak of the… of Izalith? And the Children of the Dead? They will be coming _here?"_ Her small voice had risen almost to a squeak, a rather irritating noise. Gwyn kept his composure, giving only a grave nod.

"Your shrine acts as a welcome midpoint between our three domains. They come as friends, priestess. No harm shall befall any citizen of these lands."

She did not seem entirely comforted. "I… very well, your majesty. As the Goddess' King wills it." The little human turned away, and then back, hesitantly.

"The histories tell us haven't held council with these others since the War against the Dragons, your Majesty. If, if I might be so impudent as to ask… what do you seek to discuss today?"

This time, she was forced to meet his golden eyes. Lord Gwyn's gaze was as fierce as the sun and as unyielding as tempered steel.

"Your shrine will have to be cleared of all members for the duration of the council. Your King's matters are His business, priestess." She shook visibly, falling into another bow and then shooing her attendants away hurriedly, clearing the temple as swiftly as she could.

The Lord of Sunlight watched their scurrying. Humans. Such strange creatures. Despite all his power and strength, he still did not understand where this tiny race had come from. They had simply appeared during the War, fragile and small, but numerous, and so eager to bow to the will of a superior being.

Regardless, they were useful. And they were of far less concern than the current matter weighing on his mind. He strode outside again, to watch as his guards cleared the crowds away to receive the other delegations. The Queen caught Gwyn's eye and smiled coquettishly. He smiled back, but in his mind the fear gnawed at him. The sooner this council was convened, the better.

He and his guard were the first to arrive, and so for a few moments they simply stood in sunlight, watching the cliffsides from which the other delegations would likely appear. Dragonslayer Ornstein came to kneel by his side, stalwart as always.

"My Lord," he said, voice smooth and leonine. "Do you wish me to attend the council?"

No question of what it was the council was discussing, Gwyn noted with approval. Ornstein had always been the most deferrent and loyal of his Four Knights, hence the rank he'd been granted as Captain. The King bade his golden-armoured warrior rise, his great spear held at his side.

"Not today. These words are for we Lords only, brave Dragonslayer. Guard the doors well that none may hear them."

Ornstein did not question, as mournful Artorias might have done, nor make some dry comment like the ancient Gough. He simply bowed his head again, and retreated. Gwyn nodded slightly to himself, pleased at his choice. Stability and order, that was what must be seen. Obedience and strength.

His train of thought was interrupted as a vast column of incandescent flame erupted from the earth of the courtyard before them, blackening the stone and turning the grass to ash. The delegation from Izalith came, and they came in fire.

Those humans not already shepherded back up to their homes fled, squealing and praying to Gwyn and his wife at the massive inferno spiralled into the sky, crackling and burning, nearly blotting out the sun. Only then did it begin to die down, to reveal a congregation of dark robed figures, and at their head a familiar, slender, feminine form.

"Lord of Sunlight and Lightning," the Witch of Izalith called, spreading her arms in welcome. Fire curled around her very fingertips. She stood a little taller than he did, but much thinner, her face perpetually hidden by the dark hood of her robe. He smiled back.

"Lord of Fire and Life. Well met."

They approached each other and bowed, just the right amount. In all the years since they had fought together and bled together, not a line had appeared on what part of her face he could see. She brimmed over with vitality just as ever, the fruits of her great Soul. It gave Gwyn hope.

"My thanks for meeting at this short notice. Your method of travel was... impressive."

The Witch smiled thinly. "Thank Quelana for that. A new pyromantic skill she has been mastering" She gestured to one of the dark-robed figures, one of seven standing taller and prouder than the humans: her Daughters of Chaos. The young witch a low bow, beaming beneath her hood. "All fire is born from the First Flame, you see, and thus all fire is linked. Travelling between flames could be effortless once we sort out the specifics of it and make it a little less… dramatic."

Gwyn nodded slowly, looking at the Witch carefully as she spoke. No, there was no indication that she knew of the matter he sought to discuss. That itself was good, for it showed that the secrecy he had imposed was still secure even to the other Lords of this land.

He had fought and bled alongside the Witch, and it had been her firestorms which had cast down the ashen archtrees of the dragons. The three Lords had relied upon each others' unfathomable power completely. But even so, no ruler could entirely trust anyone.

Once again, his musings were interrupted as a sound erupted from the ground. A sound it was like teeth clacking ravenously upon teeth, like fleshless skulls gnashing at each other endlessly, a terrible cacophony of splintered upon bone upon bone upon the eardrums. In a miasma of toxicity and death incarnate, the third delegation came to the shrine.

From the graveyard, amongst the neatly ordered tombstones, they rose. Earth split open, to birth death. Bony, skinless hands clasped the dirt, pulling up rank upon rank of skeletal warriors from far below. His domain was far below this, but he laid claim to all dead, and so the corpses of the graveyard here rose to his call.

Behind Gwyn, the Queen winced slightly, edging away from the grisly sight. Rank upon rank of fleshless warriors formed up with a precision which rivalled Gwyn's own Silver Knights, surrounding a dark, yawning pit which had gaped wide in the earth. A massive, white claw gripped the edge, and the Gravelord rose.

He, if such a thing had gender, was nearly formless, a towering mountain of bone. His body was that of a skeleton of Gwyn's size, but fused to and armoured with dozens of other, smaller skeletons. Every step clattered and sent grinning skulls lolling sightlessly. One hand held a great, rusted blade, its very metal seeming to weep before the eye like an open sore. The abominable figure drew to a noisy halt before his two comrades. He might have smiled, but they could not know without lips and besides he was not a smiling creature.

Nito, the First of the Dead, fixed his comrades in arms with an eyeless stare. His voice crept from between dead teeth, slithering into the air.

" _You still live. A shame. Your bones would rest well with me."_

The Witch gave a soft laugh. "Lord of Death and Disease. You haven't changed, have you?"

"None of us have," Gwyn intoned solemnly. "And neither shall we. This Age we forged together from the grey nothingness, with the might of our Souls, shall be as eternal as the Age before was not."

Nito looked at him, inscrutable. " _Why have you called this council, Lord of Light?"_ he said flatly. " _If nothing has changed, why do my bones taste the open air at your bidding?"_

Gwyn did not let his expression flinch. "I have matters of great import to discuss with you, Lords. But they are matters for the ears of we, the makers and rulers of this age, and we alone. We shall convene in the shrine, away from listening ears."

The Witch cocked her head slightly, but said nothing. Nito remained as dull and cold as ever. " _Then one more is missing. You claimed him as your vassal, did you not? Where is he?"_ The accusation of power consolidated unfairly was, as always with the Lord of the Dead, stated emotionlessly and bluntly. Gwyn chose to ignore it.

"He is late. He shall arrive forthwith, I am sure."

Nito hefted his ugly blade onto his shoulder once again, making a sound like the creak of stone sarcophagi closing forever. He began to trudge into the temple, skeletal robe clattering. Gwyn and the Witch watched him.

"Do you think he meant what he said?"

"On what matter?"

"Our bones. I wouldn't trust him to let our corpses rest easy." She was watching for his reaction, testing to see his relationship with the Gravelord. Again, he kept his expression neutral, and the Witch sighed softly as she followed the shambling mound of bone, dismissing her daughters and human servants as she went. Gwyn would have followed, but he wanted to receive his final council member himself. It had taken some convincing to get him to leave his castle at all to come to this. The outside world was not kind to him.

But come he did, to the King's relief. In the sky appeared a shimmering blue dot, which grew and grew as it descended from the walls of Anor Londo, and finally resolved itself into a dragon unlike any which had ever lived. If that word could describe what dragons did.

He was vaster than any of them, a titanic apparition in pale, malformed flesh cast in the shape of a gaunt, thin-limbed dragon. But the cast had shattered and twisted. Instead of hindquarters, the creature had a great, thick growth, from which sprouted a trio of colossal writhing tentacles. One where his right leg should have been, one for his left and one more for his tail, but even this was deformed and wrong-looking. His flesh was pale and glistened in the air, and his eyes were but blank skin. He was blind, and sure enough he clutched in his claws a single armoured mage bearing a trident and wearing a six-eyed helm, to help see for him. From his pallid back blossomed a great bouquet of iridescent, shimmering wings, vast and multitudinous and jewel-like, and these bore him clumsily down, down, to land with a crash on the blackened grass where Lord Gwyn stood.

Seath the Scaleless, he had called himself, when he came to betray his kind to them, when he told the young Lords how to kill the dragons. Seath the Scaleless. He had never said if he had chosen that name, or if his kin had given it to him.

The dragon dropped his servant, who landed in a magisterial kneel, bowing before the lord of sunlight. Seath himself did not bow, but gazed with his empty skin at his Sovereign. His voice was harsh and rasping, as if it, like every other part of him, caused him pain.

" **You had best have a good reason for this, Gwyn. I like not how the air plays on my skin, and I smell the vile scent of the dead one already here."**

"As is the Witch, Lord of Izalith," Gwyn replied. "And his name is Gravelord Nito, Lord of the Dead. This council will go a lot better if we can put aside petty dislikes like that, Duke Seath."

The dragon sniffed the air, wincing again. " **Very well. Again, though, it had best be worth it."**

He followed Gwyn towards the temple, leaving his seeing-eye sorcerer behind. Such was Seath's bulk that he could not fit through the doors, but the dragon simply pushed his head through behind Gwyn, his body sprawling in the courtyard behind. It was the method they had used often when he would not fit in a room himself.

Nito, as ever, simply stared at them. The Witch gave him a polite bow, which the blind dragon either did not sense or simply ignored. Gwyn let the atmosphere settle while he felt the miracles which he and his delegates had cast close over them. Miracles of protection from secrecy and spying, miracles keeping their words in here for them alone no matter what any would try to do to hear them. He went to stand at the altar, Seath opposite at the doors, the Witch on his right, Nito on his left. All three looked at him.

The Lord of Sunlight took a breath. He felt his Great Soul thrumming beneath his veins, power beyond measure, power endless and eternal. Or so he had once thought. Today, he was no longer quite so sure.

"The First Flame," he said, "is starting to die."


End file.
